


Confuse the brave

by gloss



Category: Captain America, Marvel 616, Nick Fury: Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Chromatic Character, Community: kink_bingo, Ficathon, Het, Multi, Watersports, dudeslash, kink bingo, pissplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:05:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fury has pissed on more than the Constitution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confuse the brave

**Author's Note:**

> Title and section headings from O'Hara's [poem](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/homosexuality/). Huge thanks to Ana, Jube, &amp; G. for various forms of encouragement and inspiration along the way.
> 
> **disclaimer:** Lee and Kirby and Marvel, not me. *Definitely* not the Mouse.  
> **warnings:** Well, piss play. And Nick Fury's a genuine asshole with assholic, retrograde opinions. So.

### So we are taking off our masks, are we

"Get the lead out, Nicky!" Red shouted over the roar of the surf. "You --"

His voice drowned in the noise.

Nick was Manhattan-born and -bred, but *that* island was a fiction, paved over and connected, knotted up with the mainland. He'd left asphalt and tar, then dirt and prairie, for the air. And now they'd landed here on the edge of the world.

Hawaii was alien territory, broken black peaks in the hot, restless sea.

He always had been contrary, dissatisfied with what was right in front of him, reaching for the opposite, grasping, needy. So his momma said, and she should know.

Nick scrubbed at the sweat on his face and stumbled after Red. Down the beach, sand fine as powder under his boots, then his bare feet, he stripped as he made for the water.

The pier loomed over him, its supports as intricate as a cathedral's.

Nick paused, water warm as blood around his calves, and searched the shadows for Red. A match flashed -- Red could smoke in a hurricane -- and Nick's skin tightened in anticipation. Of Red's mouth on his, smoke breaking over their faces, of Red's hands on his back, his waist, all over, sweeping and molding, taking and holding.

They'd stay down here for hours. Pressed together, grinding together, their moans and grunts lost to the surf, their spunk washed clean away, piss melting into the waves. Everything mixed together, indeterminate and fever-hot.

He tasted salt from the sea, from sweat, from Red's dickhead. He drank, and drank.

The match's flame grew, taller and then thicker. It guttered for half a moment before doubling, and again, until it consumed the horizon. Black smoke, darker than the volcanoes, billowed off it.

The Arizona still burned. Through his hospital window, Nick saw the smoke and bit his parched lower lip.

Red was gone, dead and gone. Nick was alone.

His catheter stung.

 

*

### so I pull the shadows around me

After Manelli missed three air-raid sirens and last curfew, on threat of stockading, Ralston finally gave his buddy up. Ignoring Dugan's protests, Fury clapped on a helmet, shouldered a sidearm, and headed into the streets to find his lost lamb.

Manelli was on his knees, arms spread, singing with breaking voice in Italian to a street sign.

"Sarge!" he managed to get out before the sirens rang again. Fury got his arm around the kid and half-lifted, half-dragged him toward the shelter.

"Gotta..." Manelli stopped short and looked around, overcome and lost as a tot in Gimbels before Christmas. He pulled helplessly at his crotch. "Gotta go, sarge."

Fury shoved him forward. "Gotta get *inside* first, soldier."

The Luftwaffe's finest shrieked overhead; the rockets whined as they careened to the city, close enough to shave the back of their necks. Something hit, across the river. Flames clawed at the horizon, their doubles pushing across dark water.

England was just an overgrown island, vulnerable as any, liable to drown at any moment.

Manelli's handsome face twisted up. He looked fit to cry.

Fury hauled him to a Tube entrance. No use trying to get all the way inside, but some shelter had to be preferable to none.

As Manelli leaned against Fury, heavy and awkward as a sack of potatoes, his arm snaked around Fury's waist. He stank of alcohol and hair grease; his lashes were long and silky on his cheek.

They caught their breath in tandem.

Fury shook the kid's shoulder. "You about ready to piss, Dino?"

When Manelli fumbled at his fly, Fury knocked his hand away.

"Let me, you useless pretty shit." He grasped Manelli's thick cock and let the man rest against the cold wall as urine flowed, tropical-hot, over his palm. "Next thing you know, I'll be wiping your asses and powdering them up good, all of you --"

Giggling, Manelli hiccuped. He twisted in Fury's hold, spattering Fury's boots. He grappled at Fury's own fly as, quick as anything, his giggles turned to sobs. "Sorry, sarge. Sorry. Sorry about Nurse Pam, damn sorry, please let me --"

He pressed his forehead on Fury's shoulder, mouth to Fury's neck. "Tesoro," he murmured, then again. The syllables matched Fury's pulse.

The urine slowed to a trickle, then dripped to nothing.

Fury didn't dare wait.

Manelli barely stirred as Fury propped him back against the wall. He did up the kid's flies, straightened his shirt collar, brushed the dark hair til it lay more neatly.

Barracks being what they were, Fury never failed to press a hand to his mouth when he jacked off. Later that night, he did so again, tasted Manelli, and flipped to his stomach to grind himself to climax, sucking three fingers down his throat.

 

*

### 14th Street is drunken and credulous,/53rd tries to tremble

Gabe denied it, vehemently, but with him, a guy could really cut loose, find himself enjoying something altogether novel and exhilarating. Bebop, two broads at once, mary jane, the whole kit and caboodle, anything went with Gabe around.

"My life, my music, they're not some Coney Island you can just drop by," Gabe'd said, several times.

Nick begged to differ. He'd swept his arm around the tiny Village club to take in all the sallow beatniks hoping to borrow some true-blue Negro _soul_.

After three encores, Gabe's set ended real late. They ambled on uptown, arm in arm, just two buddies; the rest of the Howlers might've moved on to shacking up and making babies and what not, but not Gabe.

At Fourteenth and Eighth, they clattered down to the train. Gabe's jazz cigarettes, sour and thick, had left them loose and carefree. They wove in figure-eights up and down the subway platform. The tunnels shook and roared but their train never came. Each figure on the platform kept to himself, wrapped up tighter than the bundles of the next morning's paper tossed from the trucks.

In the jaundiced light down here, Gabe's laugh was bright as a bird.

They leaned on each other, catching their breath. Gabe hummed a snatch of melody and, without conversation, they turned together for the stairs and made for the washroom.

The light there was bleached, sharp as a scalpel, each solitary figure caught alone and lonely. A wave of someone's hand, a wink from the right person, and motion returned like a breath expelled: the hood in the corner sank down to his knees before a blond tourist, the silver-haired man at the middle urinal resumed stroking himself, the door to the stall banged open as the couple inside thrust together.

Nick sidled in between the tiled wall and Gabe in order to share the urinal. Gabe dipped his head in acknowledgment, still humming, his hand on Nick's shoulder for balance.

After several hours' worth of sour wine and cheap whiskey, Nick's backteeth were practically floating. The relief of pressure as he pissed was enough to make his vision swim.

The old man held up two fingers when he caught Nick's eyes. Fingers spread like Churchill's victory sign, then pressed together and pointing at his loose, expressive lips, then down to the floor.

One man in the stall came with a grunt and curse. A train arrived downstairs.

Side by side, Nick and Gabe angled around, opening a wedge of space between them and the urinal. Mr. Park Avenue tossed his tie over his shoulder and crumpled down, greedy and grabby, never noticing or caring that he'd landed in a puddle. Left hand on Nick, right on Gabe, he took them both.

Gabe tipped his head against Nick's. Nick would have closed his eyes to better appreciate the wild warmth running beneath his skin, but the vision below was not to be missed. The woolly bristle of Gabe's hair scoured Nick's cheek while his hand clutched at Nick's shoulder.

Silver's cheeks hollowed, his pink tongue curling around the bruise-plum shaft of Gabe's cock. Gabe grabbed Nick's side, his mouth twisting up, eyes screwed shut; he only moaned when Silver moved over to Nick's cock, and his breath was hot on Nick's throat, hot and shuddering.

Silver's mouth looked as dark as the tunnel below, as bottomless, and they managed to push together, angled just so, until he was pinned against the urinal and swallowing them down.

Nick came just after Gabe, the sticky cream streaking down Silver's chin, mixing with bright piss.

Gabe could deny it all he wanted, but he sure did show a fellow a good damn time.

Nick could've kissed him. If they did that sort of thing.

 

*

### without reproach and without hope

Dugan wanted this. There was no space between want and need, not when it came to this. Not where Dugan was concerned. The priests had gotten to him, early enough, that shame tangled up with need and made him distrust whatever didn't hurt.

Deaf to praise -- which stuck in Fury's throat and to the top of his mouth anyway -- he was a savant about cruelty. His eyes shone, wide and blue as the calm sea, as he gazed up from his spot on the floor.

"Really fucked that mission, didn't ya?" Fury asked around the butt of a Macanudo, its smoke making his one good eye water. He kicked Dugan in the balls when he didn't answer.

The barber shop never closed. The lights were off, but the door was unlocked, and Dugan knelt just before the plate glass window. Manhattan traffic cruised the avenue outside; as they slid past, headlights picked out the details of cracked linoleum tiles, thick red pelt on Dugan's chest, the ridiculous upward twist to his mustache.

Naked, Dugan was a side of beef, mottled white and pink and damn near _mauve_ from too long in the freezer. He shook his head. "Did the best I could, colonel, I swear --"

"Five men dead in Laos, two missing in Hanoi, and _that's_ the best you could do?"

Dugan blinked but did not reply. His mouth opened, yawning like begging dog's; between his legs, his dick swelled, three shades darker than his ludicrous hair.

It was one thing to have an enemy at your feet -- Commie mole, Chinese spy, even, back in the day, a filthy fucking Nazi like Strucker -- but a comrade, a man behind you on the side of angels, that was a whole different game. That was exhilarating; that was enough to get the old juices going.

"Spitshine, sergeant?" Barnes had teased him once, when Fury's hand was in his hair and the kid was smirking up at him. He'd cocked his head just so. "Could do the boots, too."

Fury pawed at his fly before tossing the cigar on the floor.

He ground it out just in front of Dugan, careless of embers, half-expecting to hear that mick skin sizzle.

"Fuck up like that next time, the stogie's going out on you," he said. It was difficult to get his dick out of his pants, half-hard and rising as it was, but with a twist and a tug, he succeeded. "You understand?"

Dugan blinked, cowed and slow, before he nodded. His mouth still hung open.

Fury coldcocked him, then pinched his chin, tugged open his jaw all the way and then some, and waited. Dugan sniffled, squeezed shut his eyes, and said, finally, "I'm sorry."

He leaned into touch, tongue snaking out; Fury rocked back on his heels and let go. His dick in his palm, he aimed wide and laughed at the piss shining down Dugan's chest, darkening his mustache and making it droop.

Dugan held still, his own cock twitching madly and, finally, dribbling spunk down his soft belly, while Fury finished. He rubbed the wet in with both hands.

 

*

### It is the law of my own voice I shall investigate.

He didn't know how Val did it. She moved like a cat, speedier and more graceful than any of his men, yet she did it in stiletto heels. Teetering on those daggers, furthermore, while encased in bone and rubber better suited to torture and interrogation devices.

Not that he was complaining about the effects, mind. Her tits were like warheads, her ass broad and round as Chinese dumpling.

And then she was here, in his bed, kneeling over him, naked. All woman and then some.

She drew away, chuckling, her hair loose over her shoulders. Her skin, from shoulders down to her hips and thighs, bore the ghosts of her undergarments, red welts and dark bruises. He reached for her, but she shook her head. Murmured, "caro...", as she slid off the bed to her feet.

He followed her. He couldn't help but follow.

The crease between buttock and thigh winked with each step. She glanced over her shoulder, a lock of hair curling across her mouth. "I have...business."

He pressed onward; her sigh was music.

He followed her into the bathroom, touched the red marks, admired how she came apart and fit together. He breathed in the musk off her scalp and cupped her mound, pressed his hips against the small of her back and closed his eye.

"Nicholas," she said, chided, and covered his hand with hers. "Please. Let me. Alone."

"Can't."

He had seen her break a man's arm, smuggle four canisters of microfilm out of Prague between those magnificent breasts, shoot to kill across a canal and in fog and on a high mesa. She was the sort of agent he needed, the kind he could build a real service from. She smelled like Frog perfume and filled his arms like bunches of hibiscus, delicate and shifting and alien, damp and fragrant.

He walked her into the shower stall, mouth on her neck and jaw. When she muttered tesoro, tesoro, he bit down and she laughed.

He crooked an index finger around her clit and she arched away from him. Her legs spread and he flicked her nipple, then her clit, alternately, his dick smearing her back and ass with precome.

"Do it," he said, and forgot to make it a question. Her lips were slick and hot on his palm, gripping him back, and then slick, slippery-wet as she let go. He moved his thumb back through the flow, touching the bud of her urethra, probing her hole. When he returned to her clit and swirled it around, she shook in his hold, a catlike yowl rising from her contorted face. He rubbed himself against her.

Her urine flowed out of his cupped palm, between his fingers as he swirled her clit fast; he clutched at one of her breasts and rose on his toes, cock riding the crack of her ass, and thrust himself blind.

Val shuddered, cursing him, and beat the tiled wall with one small, strong fist.

 

*

### and there are the divine ones

Once, Cap hit him so hard while sparring that Nick pissed blood for a week.

Goddamn golden boy, butter wouldn't melt, ageless face as guileless as it was during the war. He shook his head and laced his big fingers together in his lap.

"What, don't believe me?" Fury leaned against his desk. "Here, I'll show you."

Cap met his gaze, his face gone dark with his blush. "Colonel, please --"

Fury wiggled and got his slacks and briefs down. He pumped his dick a couple times and grinned.

"That's not --" Cap's lower lip thinned and paled in his teeth. His blush darkened more, dark as old flower petals past their prime. Fury's dick warmed, thickened, in his grasp. "Necessary. That's not necessary."

Fury stroked himself a few more times, tugged his balls with his other hand, and widened his stance.

Cap was a good soldier. The best, of course; that was his damn job, so he'd better be. So he wouldn't look away, not when an officer spoke to him. Even if that officer were a broken-down old fraud with a painful erection and sudden, implacable fantasies of pissing all over that pretty blond face.

"Sir?" Cap's lower lip was plump as...something, something plump and soft. Tender, too good for the likes of Fury.

He swabbed his thumb over his piss-slit. When he brushed his thumb over that lip, Cap's tongue darted out. He closed his eyes and swallowed.

"Dismissed," Fury told him and busied himself lighting another cigar.

 

*

### I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world.

"Looking for the magic word, huh?" Fury tipped back his glass and drained the ice-melt weakened whiskey. When he tapped his fingers, his Howlers ring sounded like a bell on the crystal.

Barnes shrugged. Half-feral, still, ugly long hair hiding his scowl, he came to Fury, but never when called, and always sullen.

Beggars and choosers, survivors and hapless comrades: story of Fury's long, sad life.

Fury stood up, the room tilting for half a second, and got in front of Barnes. Too close, but the Reds had trained old Bucky up but good: he blinked, but did not move away.

"Open sesame," Fury said and poked Barnes in the chest. "Abracadabra?"

Fury was good and drunk. He reminded himself that Barnes was still a punk, just taller and lighter one arm.

"How 'bout 'please'?" Fury leaned in even closer. Barnes kept his feet where they were and tipped back his head. His lips tightened over his teeth. "Pretty please?"

What intelligence he'd salvaged and brought with him underground suggested that there were several verbal triggers for the Winter Soldier. Nothing concrete -- he'd never been that lucky -- but round about '65, everyone and his brother was trying deep-suggestion and hypnotic implantation. When they weren't all licking up LSD from the chemists' palms, that is. Just stood to reason that the Soviets did the same with their prize weapon.

"So we get the word, we know how to use you?" Fury looked Barnes up and down. "What good's _that_?"

Barnes scowled harder. Fury chucked him under the chin and patted his cheek before moving away to amble down the hall.

His balance was provisional at best. The floor was spongy, the walls a little too close. He missed his old place, the groovy flocked wallpaper and poured-plastic sculptures that looked like outrageous genitalia.

This safehouse was nondescript, so plain he was sure it was driving him nuts, making him drunker.

"The Reds, they had you doing a lot," he said, and paused. The back of his neck prickled, the vulnerable stripe of skin between hair and collar. God, he needed a haircut. He knew, with 98% certainty, that Barnes had followed him, was right behind him. He didn't bother to raise his voice. "Wonder how much, though, you didn't need to be told to do?"

He tipped his shoulder against the bathroom door and stood aside for Barnes to enter first.

Barnes moved in, then turned, impassive under the fluorescent light. Greasy hair fell like daggers over his eyes; his human hand curled up while his metal one stayed slack.

Fury fumbled with his belt buckle. He caught hold of the towel rack for balance. His hands were heavy as bricks.

"Used to be, Bucky Barnes'd help a friend in need." He glanced up from the intricate locking mechanism of his buckle in time to catch Barnes's smirk. The ghost of it, at any rate.

"We're friends?" Barnes unlatched Fury's belt easily and thumbed open the button on his pants before easing down the zipper.

Fury nudged into the touch. Gently, because this Barnes, sometimes, startled easy, like a racehorse.

Then again, that was a large part of his charm. Eyes rolling in that sharply beautiful face, teeth bared, tendons standing out like flying buttresses on his long neck. The temptation was strong, irresistible at times, to spook him just _because_. Ride fast or get kicked to death, all the same in the end.

"Used to be," Fury said again and grabbed the metal arm to steady himself, "Bucky Barnes'd be one step ahead of --"

Barnes remained still, aside from a jerk of his head to the toilet behind Fury. "I need to --"

"They program this into you, too? Sniper accuracy and deepthroating?" Fury clawed at Barnes's fly, tongue pressed against his palate, tasting the last of the whiskey, then lost his balance and stumbled backward, landing on the john, pulling Barnes with him.

As he yanked down Barnes's zipper, he looked up. From this angle, Barnes's face twisted and leered, nearly unrecognizable. What big teeth you have, and, oh! What a pretty dick --

Barnes was half-hard, probably just with the need to piss, but Fury wouldn't discount the effect of his scrabbling attentions. He used to be the best.

Metal fingers brushed Fury's hair, down the nape of his neck. "Sarge --"

"Just let go," Nick said, and tipped his head back into Bucky's palm. To meet his eyes, to lick the underside of his shaft. Smooth pink skin, ageless and untouched.

Barnes exhaled. "What do you _want_?"

Nick didn't answer. He opened his mouth all the way, until his jaw cracked. He massaged his dick, pumping slowly, nearly arthritically.

He pressed his free hand on Bucky's sharp hipbone and reminded himself to get the kid to eat more. He tasted Manelli's carbonara and Val's potato torta, Red's roast potatoes and Gabe's sour marijuana, then their mouths. Felt their bodies, turning into his, curving to meet his gaps, fill the hollows and the aches. The weight of other people, warm and _present_, their secrets running through his fingers.

Bucky's piss streaked down Nick's chin, warmer than tears, warmer than blood. He stared down with unreadable eyes; Nick refused to see pity there. Instead, he grabbed at Bucky's ass and pulled him in. Probably moaned, asking for it. Bucky fucked in and out of Nick's mouth, his dick wet and salty, swelling again. Nick shoved his hand up and down his cock, tried to match Bucky's pace, but then Bucky quickened, fucking his throat.

When Nick came, his spine snapped. Come stuck to his fingers and trickled slowly over his hairy knuckles. Bucky shot over his tongue, metal fist in his hair. For several long moments, breathless and black, they growled and grappled just like people in love.


End file.
